


Chicken Soup and Animal Crackers

by Jo (jmathieson)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Caretaker Phil Coulson, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, M/M, Not Beta Read, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-31 02:22:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17840582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jmathieson/pseuds/Jo
Summary: Clint has the flu. Phil takes care of him. Feelings ensue.





	Chicken Soup and Animal Crackers

Clint sat on the gurney in Medical while Phil stood off to the side, keeping his eyes down on his datapad—most of the time. Clint had his shirt off, and so Phil watched out of the corner of his eye as the doctor moved the stethoscope to different parts of Clint's broad chest, listening to Clint's heart, and his breathing, and whatever else she was checking. 

Clint coughed and Phil glanced up. Was he imagining things, or was Clint’s face a little pinker than usual? And was that a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead? Just as Phil was about to say something, the doctor took a thermometer out of her pocket and waved it in front of Clint’s face. Clint obligingly opened his mouth and lifted his tongue.

“Did you come into contact with any animals, wild or domestic?” Dr. Cheng asked.

“Ghnn,” said Clint.

“No, he didn’t,” said Phil, who was looking pointedly at the doctor now. Was there something wrong with Clint?

“Well in that case…” Dr. Cheng took the thermometer out of Clint’s mouth and her eyebrows went up almost comically when she saw the reading. “I’m fairly sure you have the flu.”

“Clint, were you feeling sick during the op?” Phil asked sharply, taking a step towards where Clint sat on the gurney. Then he stopped and forced himself to stand still in a more relaxed posture. He didn’t want to make Clint feel like he’d done something wrong.

“Just on the last couple of days," Clint said. "My stomach was kinda off, and I had a bit of a headache, but I figured it was just something I ate, y’know?” Clint was mumbling now, looking at the floor rather than at the doctor or Phil. 

Dr. Cheng, who was used to SHIELD agents and their quirks, smiled gently. “Sometimes it comes on slowly like that, but you aren’t feeling too good now, are you?”

“Uh, no, not really,” Clint mumbled, still looking at the floor. 

“Okay, well unfortunately it's a virus, so I can’t do much except tell you to drink lots of fluids and take Tylenol every six hours for the headache. The best thing to do, really, is to sleep it off. So I’m going to log you off duty for medical reasons. I want you to stay home for five days minimum to prevent you from infecting anyone else, but take as much time as you need. SHIELD doesn’t dole out sick days as if catching a cold was a character fault. We need you back at one-hundred-per-cent, so stay home until you feel better, right Agent Coulson?” Dr. Cheng recited her speech with just the right combination of sympathy and businesslike efficiency.

“Yes, absolutely. We don’t have anything scheduled for the next couple of weeks anyway, so take as much time as you need,” Coulson said in a tone that he hoped was both nonchalant and reassuring.

“Yeah, okay. Sleep sounds pretty good right now.” Clint hauled himself off the gurney and struggled back into his shirt. Phil’s eyes went back to his datapad as he tried to figure out how to offer Clint a lift home, without it sounding like he didn’t trust him to actually go home. 

Clint solved that by saying, “Coulson, you think you could maybe call me a cab? I probably shouldn't spread flu germs all over a bunch of poor working slobs on the subway.”

“Of course.” Phil tapped his pad. “A cab will be at the main entrance by the time you get there." Phil fought down the blush that threatened to rise as he asked. "Is… ah, is there anything else you need?” 

“Nah, thanks boss. I’m good. Just need some sleep, like the doc said.” Clint sketched a wave as he shuffled slowly out of the room. “See ya when I’m not feeling like crap.”

~~~~~

The next morning as Phil caught up on his paperwork, he wondered how Clint was doing. He'd had the flu himself a couple of times and it was the sickest he'd ever been, apart from when he'd had mono as a teenager. 'He'll be fine,' Phil told himself. 'He just needs rest and he's getting that... I hope.'

After the third time he'd caught himself staring off into space wondering about Clint, Phil shuffled through the stacks of paper on his desk until he found Clint's most recent set of mission reports. Scanning the documents he found what he was looking for: a pretext to call Clint and ask him to clarify a minor point. He dialed and waited while Clint's phone rang... and rang... and rang... and eventually went through to voicemail.

'He probably switched it off so he could sleep. I'll try again later.' Phil put the report aside and stood up. 'In the meantime, I'll go check up on some of the trainee agents.' Phil wasn't quite ready to admit to himself that he was looking for a distraction to stop himself from worrying about Clint.

Four hours and two tours of the SHIELD facility later, having left terror and encouragement in equal measure where appropriate, Phil was back in his office. He looked at Clint's mission report, still sitting on top of the pile on his desk, and pulled out his phone. Voicemail again. Phil forced himself to quash the tendril of worry that had unfurled in his chest. 'He's a grown man. He can take care of himself. He's at home, doing what the doctor said; sleeping.' But Phil wasn't convinced. 

It wasn't that he thought Clint was incapable of taking care of himself. Phil had only been been over to Clint's apartment a couple of times, but from those visits it was clear that Clint cooked for himself, and did his laundry, and kept his apartment clean just fine. His methods were a little slap-dash, to be sure, but that was Clint. His apartment was small, and in not-so-great a neighborhood, but it was the first home he'd ever had of his own. Phil knew that Clint was proud of it, and kept it up as best he could. Between missions, of course.

Still, Phil couldn't stop himself from wondering and worrying. 'He went straight home by cab. He probably didn't think to stop at a store and stock up on orange juice and soup. I wonder if he's okay?' And now, along with the tendril of worry (which was growing into a leafy vine), a question started to niggle at the back of Phil's mind, 'and why am I so worried about him?'

Because he cared, Phil admitted to himself. Over the past couple of years he'd grown not only to respect Clint as a colleague, but also to care about him as a friend. Maybe more than he should. And if he wondered, in his weaker moments, if perhaps Clint could ever see him as more than his boss, his handler, and his friend—well, Phil kept that carefully buried. Most of the time.

Phil sighed and tapped his phone again. 'It's been twenty-four hours. If he doesn't answer this time, then I'm going over to check on him. Just to make sure he's okay.' When the call went through to voicemail again, Phil cleared his files, switched off his computer and locked his office, even though it was only 4pm. 

He took a cab to the block Clint's building was in, and then found the nearest bodega where he picked up a six-pack of Gatorade, four cans of chicken soup, a bottle of Tylenol, and a box of that hot-fake-lemon-cold-and-flu medicine. He wasn't sure if it was any more effective than regular Tylenol, but Phil found it comforting when he was sick, so he bought it anyway.

Standing at the door to the apartment building, Phil paused a minute before hitting the buzzer marked "C. F. Barton." Then he buzzed up. And waited, anxiously. He had a spare set of keys to Clint's apartment in his pocket (Clint had shyly given them to him a week after he'd moved in, "Just in case I loose mine, or... you know, whatever,") but he didn't want to use them if Clint was actually home. Phil waited for a long slow count of 30, then leaned on the buzzer again, for a little longer this time. Another long slow count of 30. He was transferring the bag of groceries to his left hand so that he could pull the keys out of his pocket when a raspy voice that was just barely recognizable as Clint's came over the tinny speaker. 

"Yeah?"

"Charlie Papa Seven Three Nine Delta" Phil said, having decided that giving his SHIELD personal ID code would be faster and easier that explaining to Clint why he was there over the intercom.

"Yeah, okay boss," Clint said, then his voice dissolved into a coughing spasm. 

The door buzzed open and Phil hurried through and sprinted up the four flights to Clint's apartment. He rapped sharply on the door of number 5B, then called, "Clint, it's Coulson."

"Yeah," he heard, barely, from the other side of the door. The the locks turned one by one and the door swung open to reveal Clint in a pair of boxer shorts and nothing else, hanging onto the door frame for dear life, looking like... well, looking like someone who had a very bad case of the flu.

"Don't know if I can do it, boss," Clint said, his voice like sandpaper. "You'd better get someone else."

"Someone else for what?" Phil asked, moving past Clint through the door and shutting it behind himself. He didn't bother with the locks just yet.

"Mission," croaked Clint. "Don' think I can make it. Sorry." Clint swayed on his feet and Phil moved quickly. He slid the arm holding the grocery bag around Clint's waist and used the other to drape Clint arm across his shoulders. 

"There's no mission, Clint. I just wanted to make sure you were okay." Phil maneuvered Clint over to the long sofa that took up most of the living room and lowered him gently. "You didn't answer your phone."

"Must'a forgot to charge it," Clint mumbled, his eyes drifting closed. Phil glanced around quickly. There was an empty water bottle, a barely-touched bowl of Spaghetti-Os, and a bottle of Tylenol on the coffee table; and a threadbare sheet on the sofa. Clint was flushed red and Phil could smell the sour tang of stale sweat. 

"Here," Phil said, reaching into the grocery bag and detaching a bottle of Gatorade (blue, Clint's favorite) from the six-pack. "Drink this." He twisted off the cap and handed it to Clint who brought it to his lips and took a large swallow. "Easy, go slow. There's lots more," Phil said, trying to keep his tone gentle and reassuring.

"Sorry," Clint mumbled, lowering the bottle.

"Hey, it's okay." Phil couldn't help reaching out to put one hand on Clint's bare knee and squeezed it in a way that he hoped was comforting and reassuring. "You don't have to apologize. Drink as much as you need to."

Clint nodded, then drained three-quarters of the bottle in long, slow sips. Phil realized how warm Clint's skin was under his hand.

"When was the last time you took these?" he asked, picking up the bottle of Tylenol. 

"Uh, I took some when I got home yesterday..." Clint's voice rose as if he was looking for confirmation. Phil nodded. "Then I slept through the night, mostly. This morning I took two more when I got up, and I tried to eat something, but that made me feel pretty lousy, so I went back to bed to try to sleep some more. But then I was sick, so I don't know how much good the pills did. After that I guess I kinda passed out here."

"Here, take these," Phil said, shaking two pills out of the bottle and handing them to Clint. "They should help bring your fever down and make you feel better." Phil wondered if he should have bought a thermometer, so that he could make sure Clint's temperature wasn't dangerously high. Maybe Clint had one somewhere? But he was conscious, talking coherently, and answering questions sensibly, so Phil figured that Clint probably wasn't in any danger. 

Clint swallowed the Tylenol and drained the last of the Gatorade. Phil took a second bottle out of the bag and offered it to him, but Clint shook his head. Phil cracked the seal on the bottle and put it on the coffee table within easy reach. 

"If I make you some soup, do you think you could eat some?"

"You don't need to..." Clint mumbled, looking down and tugging at the sheet to pull it over his knees. 

"I've had the flu, I know just how badly it sucks." 

That got a tiny twitch of Clint's lips. "It sucks pretty bad. I could maybe eat a little."

Phil gathered up the groceries he had brought and headed for the kitchen alcove. He found a clean mug and spoon then pulled the tab on a can of cream of chicken soup. He poured a third of it into the mug and added some water before putting it in the microwave. While the soup heated, Phil stowed the rest of the Gatorade in the fridge, the rest of the soup in the cupboard, noticing as he did that it was well stocked with pancake mix, cereal, crackers, cans of soup, pasta, chili, and stew, and—Phil's eyebrows went up—boxes of cake mix.

He left the hot lemon cold remedy and the extra bottle of Tylenol on top of the fridge. The microwave pinged. Phil gave the soup a stir and then tested the temperature with his pinky. He put the mug back in the microwave for another 30 seconds, and spent that time finding a roll of foil to cover the rest of the can of soup, which he stowed in the fridge, making a mental note to check if Clint's milk was expired before using it.

"Here," he said, taking the mug back over to the sofa and handing it to Clint. "Drink some of this."

Clint managed a couple of mouthfuls before lowering the mug and cradling it to his chest with both hands.

"Not hungry?" Phil asked.

Clint shook his head. "Cold." He handed the mug back to Phil and pulled weakly at the sheet that was tangled next to him on the sofa.

Phil put the soup on the table and stood. "I'll go get you a blanket," he said, heading for Clint's bedroom. He opened the bedroom door to a mess of sheets and blankets and a faint smell of vomit. It seemed that Clint hadn't made it to the bathroom quickly enough when he'd been sick, and most of his bedding was splattered. There was a roll of paper towel and a garbage bag in the corner where Clint had obviously tried to clean up, but... 

Phil crossed to the window and heaved it open as far as it would go. It opened onto a fire escape in a narrow alleyway, but some fresh air was better than nothing. Phil searched the room for a clean blanket, but didn't find one. He considered grabbing one of Clint's sweatshirts, but he'd only need to take it off again when he got too hot. He did grab a clean t-shirt, though, and then headed for the bathroom. Maybe there was a linen closet?

There was, but it held cleaning supplies, rather than spare sheets and blankets. 

'Maybe I should just call a cab and get him to Medical. They'll be able to take proper care of him there,' Phil thought, then realized that he was over-reacting, and maybe being just a little irrational. 'Medical sent him home. It's just the flu, he's not dying. Make a plan, Coulson.' Phil took a deep breath and looked around. His first priority was to make Clint as comfortable as possible. Warm, to start with, and then preferably back in his own bed with clean sheets. Phil found a fresh washcloth and soaked it in warm water, then ducked back into Clint's bedroom. His pillow was still clean, so Phil grabbed it and headed back out to the living room where Clint was curled up on the sofa, looking miserable.

"Clint, I need you to sit up for me for just a couple of minutes, and then you can go back to sleep," Phil said, trying for half-way between cajoling and ordering. Clint was probably too out of it to notice, but he heaved himself upright. Phil perched on the coffee table facing him.

"Good, now close your eyes, I'm going to wipe your face." Phil half-expected Clint to balk or protest, but he just closed his eyes. Phil wiped his face with the warm cloth, starting at his hairline and going gently over his eyes, nose, and mouth, then scrubbing more vigorously behind his ears and down his neck. The last time Phil had done this, he'd been wiping the blood away before bandaging Clint's head. This, unsurprisingly, felt a lot more intimate, but Phil refused to let himself think about that right now. 

"Okay, here's a clean shirt, and your pillow." Phil handed him the shirt and plumped the pillow against the arm of the sofa.

"Thanks, Phil," Clint said through the fabric as he pulled his shirt over his head, which gave Phil a couple of seconds to school his features. Clint always called him 'Coulson,' or 'Boss,' or very occasionally 'Sir' (when he was feeling particularly snarky about something). 

"You're welcome. Lie down and get some rest," Phil said. Clint curled himself into a ball on the sofa.

He picked up the thin sheet Clint had been using as a blanket and folded it in four before laying it over Clint's legs. Then Phil stood up and shrugged out of his suit jacket, which he spread out over Clint's back and shoulders.

Phil nodded to himself, satisfied that this was the best he could do for now. Then he put the rest of his quickly-made plan into action: he bundled Clint's soiled bedding into a garbage bag, and put it by the front door, then got a bucket and some cleaning supplies from the bathroom closet. He finished cleaning the bedroom floor, then rinsed the bucket thoroughly and carried into the living room. Clint had curled his fingers around the lapel of Phil's jacket to pull it more snugly over his shoulder and tucked his nose under the collar. Phil stopped and simply stared for a moment at a sick, tired Clint snuggling under his jacket. The image tugged at his heart, and the squirmy feeling that had taken up residence in the pit of his stomach ever since he'd decided to come over and check on Clint intensified. He ignored it. 'Work the plan, Coulson,' Phil admonished himself.

"Clint, I brought you a bucket. If you're sick again, don't try to get up, okay? Just use this." He put the bucket on the floor by the sofa, near Clint's head.

Clint's eyes half-opened. "Yeah, okay, thanks Phil."

"And there's water and Gatorade on the table here. I'm going to go out for a bit, but I'll be back as soon as I can. I'll use my keys so you don't have to get up to buzz me in."

"Yeah, sure." 

"Good. Try to sleep." But Clint's eyes had already drifted closed. Phil had the absurd impulse to lean over and kiss his forehead. Instead, he allowed himself to brush Clint's hair back, telling himself he was checking on Clint's fever. Clint made a small noise and pulled the jacket more tightly around himself.

"I'll be back soon," Phil said softly, not wanting to wake Clint again.

~~~~~

Phil navigated the keycard machine and the instructions on the washers in the laundromat closest to Clint's apartment. Once he was satisfied that everything was spinning the way it was supposed to, he looked around. At almost 7:00pm on a Friday night, the place was deserted except for a young woman with short purple hair sitting at a table in the corner. She had a laptop and a textbook, the spine of which announced it to be Advanced Molecular Biology.

"Excuse me," Phil said, in his most pleasant manner and with his most inoffensive smile pasted on his face. "I wonder if I could ask you to, ah, keep an eye on my laundry for a bit. I need to go and, ah, pick up some things." Phil purposefully let his voice lilt; sounding gay would make him seem less threatening, he hoped.

The young woman looked up from her textbook and gave him a 'What, are you kidding me?' look. 

Phil pulled out his wallet and fished out a twenty-dollar bill. "I... my friend is sick; I'm washing his sheets for him. I need to go back to my place and pick up some clothes so I can stay with him for a couple of days. I know textbooks are expensive," Phil said, glancing down at the book and then gesturing with the money.

"'kay. I'll be here for another 90 minutes, but no more than that. As soon as my stuff is done, I've got better things to do on a Friday night." She reached out and took the money, tucking into her textbook like a bookmark. 

"Of course," Phil said, feeling foolish.

"If you leave your keycard, I'll move your stuff - your friends' stuff - into the dryer, if you're not back yet."

"Thank you very much, that would be a huge help."

"Sure," she said, and looked back down at her laptop. Phil put the keycard down on the table next to her book.

"I'll be back as soon as I can. Thanks again." Then he turned and left immediately, not wanting to seem like a creep.

~~~~~~

At his apartment, Phil quickly changed into chinos and a pale blue button-down. Then he pulled his go bag and a large duffel out of his gear closet, and proceeded to move most of the contents of the former into the latter, trying, as he did, not to think to much about why he'd decided to sleep on Clint's sofa for the night.

In addition to his overnight things, he added a spare set of sheets for the sofa, a travel pillow, his laptop and phone charger, and the throw blanket from the back of his own sofa. It was a somewhat gaudy orange-brown-purple knitted (or was it crochet? Phil could never tell the difference) afghan that he'd inherited from one of his aunts who'd obviously made it in the 70s, when bright orange acrylic was all the rage. It's one redeeming feature was that it had survived countless machine washings over the years. He'd always meant to replace it with something... else, but somehow had never gotten around to it.

Phil slung the three-quarters full duffel over his shoulder and called another cab. On his way back to the launderette, he stared out the window, not able to stop himself from thinking about why he was doing this. He wanted to take care of Clint. He wanted to tuck him into a nice clean, warm bed so that he could sleep off his flu and get better. Phil wanted to feed him soup and see him smile his thanks. He wanted to make sure Clint was safe, and happy, and... 

‘Face it, Coulson, you've fallen for him. Hard.' Sitting in the back of a cab, watching the streets of New York go by frustratingly slowly, Phil felt the blush creep up his neck. It all seemed so obvious now in retrospect. The clench of real fear in his gut every time Clint got hurt. The way it brightened his day when Clint stopped by his office to invite him to spar, or have lunch, or to simply crash on his sofa while he did his own paperwork.

‘And maybe… just maybe,’ Phil thought, suddenly seeing those visits and invitations in a different light. ‘Maybe he…’ But Phil knew he couldn’t count on that. He and Clint were friends, and he knew Clint didn’t make friends easily, even at SHIELD. So Clint spending time with him was probably just for companionship. Probably. ‘In any case, I’m not going to even think about perusing anything, or finding out if, in fact, there’s anything to pursue, until he’s better.’ 

The cab pulled up into front of the laundromat and Phil paid and tipped the driver and climbed out, hauling his duffel bag with him. There were a couple more people using the machines now, but the biology student was still there, tapping furiously on her laptop. At her elbow was a neatly folded pile of sheets and blankets. 

“Thank you, you didn’t need to do that,” Phil said, opening up his duffel and stowing Clint’s bedding.

“S’okay, I needed to stretch my back. These chairs are hell for studying.”

“I really appreciate it.” Phil smiled his innocent and inoffensive smile and shouldered the bag.

“Don’t forget your keycard,” she said, sliding across the table towards him.

“Keep it. There’s still about $3.50 left on it, I think, enough for one load. I’m not going to need it again, at least I hope I won’t.”

She looked at him for a minute and then shrugged and dropped the card into her backpack. “Thanks. I hope your friend feels better.”

Phil just smiled benignly again, and left.

~~~~~~

Back at Clint’s apartment, he unlocked the door as quietly as he could and stepped through, easing it closed again behind himself. He didn’t want to wake Clint if he was sleeping but Phil heard the sofa creak, so he dropped his bag and stepped quickly around to where Clint could see him.

“It’s okay, it’s me,” Phil said, crouching down in front of the sofa to be at eye-level. 

Clint blinked at him, then a sleepy smile formed on his face. “Hey, Phil.”

In light of his newfound feelings, Phil couldn't help but reach out and smooth Clint’s straggly hair out his his eyes. But once he’d done that, he laid his hand on Clint’s forehead, ostensibly to check his temperature. “You fever seems to be down a bit; how are you feeling?”

“Like crap. But at least my stomach seems to have settled down a little bit.” Clint pulled himself into a half-sitting position in the corner of the sofa without relinquishing his hold on Phil’s suit jacket. He didn’t meet Phil’s eyes as he pulled it up to his chin. 

“Here,” Phil said, handing him the bottle of Gatorade from the coffee table. “Drink as much of this as you can.” And when Clint had obediently drained half the bottle and handed it back, “Do you want to try to eat something?” 

“Yeah. Some more of that soup might stay down.”

“Okay, I’ll make you some, and after you’ve eaten we’ll get you off the sofa and into bed.” 

“Thanks, Phil," Clint said, his voice warm despite the rasp in his throat. 

Phil turned away to cover swallowing a lump that suddenly appeared in his own throat. Clint was calling him ‘Phil’ now, apparently. He liked that. He liked it a lot. He busied himself with the soup and once he’d handed Clint the warm mug he pulled the clean bedding out of his duffel and disappeared into Clint’s bedroom.

It smelled a lot better now, so he closed the window down to a crack for the fresh—well New York City’s version, anyway—air. Then he quickly and efficiently made up the bed, pulling the fitted sheet tight and tucking the top sheet in, then fluffing up the blanket and laying it smoothly on top. When he was satisfied that the bed was as comfortable as he could make it, he headed back into the living room where Clint was draining the last of the soup from the mug.

“Do you want some more?”

“I think I should wait until I know it’s gonna stay down.”

Phil nodded. “Good plan. Ready to go back to bed?”

“Yeah, I guess.” 

Phil held out a hand. Clint’s snaked out from under the suit jacket that was still draped over his chest and shoulders and closed around it. He swung his legs off the sofa and hauled himself to his feet, swaying slightly. Phil moved in and put his arm around Clint’s waist, and pretended not to notice when Clint snagged the jacket off the sofa and brought it with him as they negotiated the few feet to the bedroom. 

“You get comfortable, I’ll go get your pillow,” Phil said as soon as Clint was sitting down again. ‘And a bottle of water, and the bucket,’ he thought, heading back into the living room and doing mental math to figure out when Clint was due for more Tylenol. 

He picked up the pillow and bucket and got a fresh bottle of water from the fridge. By the time he went back to the bedroom, Clint had crawled under the covers and spread Phil’s jacket over his chest again, with the collar pulled up to his chin. Phil fought down an urge to crawl into the bed and pull Clint into his arms. “Here’s your pillow. The bucket is here in case you need it, and here’s some fresh water. Phil cracked the seal but left the cap on the bottle. He gave into the impulse to perch on the edge of Clint’s bed and lay a hand on his forehead. 

“You’re not due for more Tylenol for another couple of hours. If you wake up with a bad fever, call me and I’ll bring you some.”

“I can get up to get my own pills, Phil. You don’t need to come all the way over here just for that,” Clint said with a shadow of his usual sardonic grin on his face.

“I, ah, thought I’d stick around tonight. I brought my laptop, and some sheets for the sofa.” Phil took his hand off Clint’s face and lay it in his lap.

Clint stared at him for a moment before saying, “Not that I’m complaining, but why’re you here, Phil?”

“Because you’re sick. And I know how awful it is to be sick when you’re alone and have no one to take care of you.” Phil took a breath. Clint’s eyes were on him, fever-bright. “And because you’re my friend and I care about you.” 

“I… That’s…” Clint swallowed noisily. “Thank you. I, uh, I care about you too.”

“I’m glad,” Phil said, ignoring the butterflies in his stomach and the lump in his throat. “Now get some sleep, and call me if you need anything.”

~~~~~~

Phil did a couple of hours of work on his laptop, then got up to stretch his back. He smiled a fond smile at the memory of the biology student in the laundromat. Maybe Clint knew her, since he probably used the same one. He’d have to remember to ask when Clint was feeling better. He tidied the empty bottles and other trash off the coffee table, washed the dishes in the sink, and used the bathroom. He considered taking a shower, but didn’t want to risk making any noise that would wake Clint, and so decided that he could shower in the morning instead. He changed into sweatpants and a grey SHIELD t-shirt, made up the sofa with the sheets he’d brought, and settled down under the lurid afghan.

Phil woke to the sound of Clint retching and coughing, and scrambled off the sofa, taking three quick steps across the apartment. Then he stopped. Barging into Clint’s bedroom somehow seemed like more of an invasion of his privacy than inviting himself to sleep on Clint’s sofa and take care of him. 

“Clint,” he called through the door, “Do you need any help?”

“Think I mastered barfing on my own when I was about six,” came the answer.

Phil had to laugh; even sick as he was, Clint could still snark. “Can I come in anyway?” he asked.

“Sure, if you want to.”

Phil was at his side a moment later with his arm around Clint’s shoulders as he heaved into the bucket again. All that was coming up was thin yellow bile, but Clint gasped and choked his way through his stomach’s continued attempts to empty itself. Finally the spasms stopped and Clint wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

“Is that it for now, do you think?” Phil asked.

“Fuck, I hope so.”

“Okay, here. Rinse your mouth out.” Phil uncapped the bottle of water from his bedside table. Clint took it with a shaky hand. He rinsed and spat, then swallowed a couple of small sips. 

“Good. I’ll go get you some more Gatorade in a minute. You need to stay hydrated.”

“Yeah, I know,” Clint said in a small voice.

“Hey, you’re going to be okay.” Phil couldn’t help himself, he rubbed Clint’s back gently in small circles.

“Feels like I’m dying.”

“Do you want to go back to medical?” If Clint really felt that bad, maybe he should insist, Phil thought. 

Clint looked up with red-rimmed eyes. “Naw, doc said I had the flu and sent me home. Pretty sure she knows what she’s talking about. Besides, you’re here.” Clint squeezed Phil’s knee weakly. “Thanks.”

“Why don’t you climb back under the covers, but stay sitting up for a minute. I’m going to get you some Tylenol and some Gatorade.” 

Clint nodded tiredly and shifted, and Phil reluctantly took his hand off Clint’s back.

Phil stopped at the bathroom first to soak another washcloth in warm water before heading to the kitchen. This time he handed it to Clint to wipe his own face, before giving him the pills and bottle of Gatorade. While Clint was drinking, Phil flushed the contents of the bucket and rinsed it out before bringing it back.

He found Clint curled up in a ball on his side with his blankets clutched around him and the suit jacket covering his shoulders again. Seeing Clint like that, using his jacket as a source of comfort, made Phil swallow heavily as he put the bucket back in place. Again he reached out to smooth Clint’s hair back. “Call me if you need anything else,” he said softly.

“Yeah. Thanks, Phil.”

“You’re welcome. Try to sleep.”

~~~~~~

Phil had been awake for a couple of hours, catching up with world events on his laptop, when he heard movement from Clint’s bedroom. He looked up to see Clint shuffling determinedly towards the bathroom, so other than giving him a brief wave, Phil didn’t interfere. He did however get up and pour himself another cup of coffee. After a couple of minutes, Clint emerged looking bleary-eyed, but somewhat healthier. For one thing, he was standing upright without holding onto anything for support.

“Good morning. How are you feeling?”

“A little better, I think. Head still hurts like a motherfucker, and I’m hungry and nauseous at the same time, which really sucks, but at least I don’t feel like I’m dying any more, so that’s a big plus.” Clint was giving the coffee maker a look which clearly showed he wished he thought coffee was a good idea, but knew it was probably a very bad one.

“Why don’t you go sit on the sofa. I’ll bring you some Tylenol. Do you think you could manage to eat something? Soup? Or dry toast?” The bread Phil had found in Clint’s fridge was a little stale, but would be fine toasted.

“There are some crackers in the cupboard. I’ll try those.”

“Coming right up.”

Sure enough, behind the cans of soup, Phil found a plastic tub of animal crackers. He grinned as he brought it over to the sofa, along with a fresh bottle of Gatorade and the Tylenol. “Remind you of your circus days?” he asked as he handed it to Clint, who had already wrapped himself up in the afghan.

“Kinda,” Clint said, opening the tub and fishing out what was probably meant to be a zebra. “Kids used to sometimes have boxes of them, you know the old-fashioned kind on a string?” 

Phil nodded as he set his coffee down on the table and sat next to Clint. 

“It was just one of those things that the normal kids, the ones with houses and families and stuff, had that I didn’t. S’funny, most of those kids probably would have killed for as much cotton candy as they could eat, but I wanted animal crackers. Anyway…” Clint popped half a giraffe into his mouth and chewed slowly.

“I understand,” Phil said softly. “My father died when I was young, so after that we didn’t have very much money.”

“Shit, Phil, I didn’t know that. I’m sorry.” Clint turned on the sofa so that he was facing Phil.

“Thanks. My mother worked as a secretary, which was just barely enough to keep a roof over our heads. But she still managed to give me an allowance of twenty-five cents a week for mowing the lawn and taking out the trash and keeping my room tidy and helping my sister with the dishes every night after dinner. So my bike was always second-hand, and so were most of our clothes, but every week I could go down to the drugstore and buy the latest Captain America comic, and that made me feel… normal.”

“Is that why you joined the army?” Clint asked, then his face fell. “Sorry, I shouldn’t pry.”

“No, it’s fine. I wanted to go to college, but of course we didn’t have the money, so I knew my only chance was on scholarship. I wasn’t big enough for football or tall enough for basketball, or fast enough for track, so the ROTC was my best bet.”

“Plus, Steve Rogers was in the army,” Clint said with a grin.

“There was that,” Phil agreed with a small smile. “So, are you feeling up to watching some TV, or do you want to go back to bed?”

Clint cocked his head to the side for a minute, then grabbed the TV remote and hit a few buttons. And that was how they ended up watching two hours of cartoons, followed by a classic 80s television marathon. By mid-afternoon Clint felt well enough to eat, so Phil made tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. Clint managed a half a bowl of soup and a quarter of a sandwich, after which he pulled the afghan around himself again and closed his eyes.

“Just gonna take a little nap,” he mumbled. 

Phil smiled and pulled out his phone, figuring that within a few minutes he’d be helping Clint back to bed, and then he’d get his laptop back out and do some more work. Sure enough, Clint was soon listing to one side and a minute later toppled over towards him. Phil had to move fast to avoid elbowing Clint in the jaw as his head hit Phil’s thigh with a ‘thunk’. Phil expected Clint to wake up, shake his head, laugh, and stumble off to bed. Instead he muttered, coughed, pulled the afghan more tightly around himself, and… snuggled, burrowing his head into Phil’s hip and tucking one hand under Phil's thigh while curling the fingers of the other around his knee. 

It wasn’t the first time they’d been so physically close. On any number of missions they'd lifted, carried, held each other up, huddled for warmth, shared tents and beds and even, on one memorable occasion involving an exploding boat and subsequent two-mile swim in 45 degree water, a sleeping bag—naked. But that was all for missions. During missions. When their lives or safety or liberty, or someone else's was on the line. This felt different to Phil. Was different. Clint wasn't hurt, he was just sick with the flu. And he wasn't cuddling Phil's lap because he was trying to stay alive, he was doing it for… comfort. Like the way he had snuggled under Phil's jacket. And if comfort was what Clint wanted and needed from him, then… Phil spent several long minutes stroking Clint's hair, then put his arm around Clint's chest, holding him close. As hard as it was going to be to give this up when Clint didn't need him any more, Phil couldn't bring himself to not make the most of it now. 

Which is how he ended up spending the next two hours replying to his backlog of email on his phone one-handed while the other rested warmly on Clint's chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breath. When Clint shifted in his sleep, Phil assumed he was waking up. But instead Clint started to thrash and make small, choked-off moaning noises. Phil moved his hand to Clint's shoulder, squeezing firmly and shaking it gently. 

"Clint, wake up. You're having a bad dream," and when that didn't work, Phil said more sharply, "Barton." That did the trick. Clint stilled immediately, and even though Phil couldn't see them he was pretty sure Clint's eyes were now open. "It's okay, Clint," Phil said, his voice soft and reassuring, "you were just having a nightmare." Phil squeezed Clint's shoulder again, and this time Clint relaxed, drawing in one long shuddering breath and letting it out before levering himself up into a sitting position. 

He didn't move away from Phil, though, instead he pulled the afghan tightly around himself and leaned against Phil's shoulder. When Clint spoke his voice was a croak, and he had to swallow noisily before saying "Thanks. I… uh, it was a bad one."

"We all have them," Phil said after a moment, hoping that Clint wouldn't feel pressured to talk about it. The silence between them lengthened and Phil was about to suggest making some coffee when Clint spoke again.

"I was sick like this once before, while I was, uh, working as a merc. Same thing, I guess, flu. At the time, though, I was sure I'd caught something way worse, like ebola or something. I was sure I was dying. I was holed up in a crappy motel on the outskirts of town. I remember throwing my guts up until my throat was raw. After the first day I couldn't even drag my ass from the bed to the bathroom and back, so I took a blanket in with me and slept on the bathroom floor when I wasn't barfing. I was getting weaker and weaker," as Clint spoke he leaned into Phil, who put an arm around his shoulders. Clint started to shake. "I figured that when I didn't have the strength pull myself up to the sink to drink any more, that I'd just… die."

"That must have been terrifying," Phil said softly, holding Clint close.

"I guess, yeah. At the time I remember feeling bad for the poor chambermaid who was gonna find me when the cash I'd paid for the room ran out." Clint was quiet for a long moment. "Thanks for being here."

"You're welcome," Phil said, wishing he could think of something else to say, something to let Clint know that he cared. That he'd always be there when Clint needed him. But Phil couldn't find the right words; or at least he couldn't find ones that would convey what he felt without revealing too much. So instead Phil just held Clint until he stopped shaking, and eventually fell back to sleep.

~~~~~~

A week later…

"Hey boss," Clint said with a cheerful grin as he strode into Phil's office and stopped in front of his desk.

"Clint, well, you're certainly looking much better." It was an understatement. Clint looked stunning. He was wearing tight black jeans and a purple-and-gray t-shirt that pulled snugly across his chest and accentuated the bulge of his biceps. He was freshly shaven, and Phil was willing to bet he'd had his hair cut as well.

"Yeah, well I probably couldn't have looked much worse than I did last week without actually being dead," Clint said. Part of Phil's brain wanted to say something about how Clint always looked just fine, even when he was sick, but the more rational part made him pause just long enough, and he was saved from potential embarrassment because Clint spoke again. "So, uh, I want to take you out to dinner. As a 'thank you'. For staying with me and taking care of me when I was sick."

"You don't have to do that," Phil said automatically.

"Yeah, I know. But I want to. Please, Phil? It, uh, meant a lot to me that you were there."

Phil swallowed. Turning Clint down would be rude, not to mention the fact that it would make Phil feel like a heel. Or the fact that really liked to idea of going out to dinner with Clint. Even if it was just a 'Thank You' gesture. "I'm glad I was there. Thank you for the invitation; dinner sounds very nice. Do you have someplace in mind?"

"Um, there's a steak joint a few blocks from my place, it isn't fancy or anything, but the food's really good and the staff are awesome," Clint said, his cheeks coloring just a little.

"That sounds great," Phil smiled and hoped it looked relaxed and pleasant. Why was his heart pounding so hard in his chest? Clint was just being nice. Just saying 'Thank You'.

"Cool. Uh, so tomorrow's Friday. Would that work, if you're not busy of course?"

"No," Phil said quickly, then "ah, no, I don't have any other plans. Tomorrow night's fine."

"Okay, I'll text you the address and I guess I'll see you then."

"Yes. Thank you. For inviting me."

"Yeah, well, thanks for, uh… you know, everything." With that Clint turned and beat a hasty retreat. 

Phil sank into his desk chair and wiped his hands over his face. He could do this. He could go out and have a nice 'Thank You' dinner with Clint. As friends. It would be fine.

Friday rolled around. Phil got more nervous as the day wore on and finally, at 4:30, decided that a nice hard workout in the SHIELD gym was the best way to stop himself from going batshit crazy. Besides, that would give him an excuse to shower and shave again and change into the extra clothes he'd brought with him. Not that this was a date. His regular suit would have been fine, of course, but Phil wanted to wear something a little more casual, to make it seem less like a business dinner and more like two friends going out. Which it was. So he'd brought a pair of grey slacks and a black v-neck sweater in from home and stowed them in his locker this morning. 

Phil pushed himself through a strenuous run and weights workout, then took a long shower. While he was getting his shaving kit out of his locker his phone buzzed with a text from Clint: the restaurant's address, as promised. "See you there at 7," Phil replied, and got a smiley-face in response. He stared at his phone for a minute before switching it off and sticking it in his pants pocket. 

Shaved and dressed, Phil hailed a cab outside the SHIELD building. Bad rush-hour traffic meant he was a few minutes late, but not quite so late he felt he needed to text Clint to let him know. When he walked into the restaurant he spotted Clint immediately, sitting at a table for two along the right hand wall. The table was just about half-way between the front and back of the small bistro, and Phil wondered if Clint had asked for that table on purpose, because it had the best sight-lines. 

Clint stood up as Phil walked over. He was wearing a deep purple dress shirt and black jeans, and looked fantastic. Phil's mouth went dry. 

"Hey," Clint said, "You found the place okay?"

"Yes. Well, the cabbie did. There was some bad traffic which is why I'm a little late. Sorry." Phil sat down as he was talking and Clint did the same.

"No, of course; that's what I figured." Clint had taken his own seat. "One of the reasons I like this place so much - it's walking distance from my apartment so I don't have to deal with cabs or traffic. So, uh, the steaks are great and so are the fries. They do some pasta things too, which I've never had, but I'm sure they're good too. Oh and you can get a baked potato instead of fries with your steak if you want." Clint seemed nervous as he recited half the menu before Phil had even had a chance to open it. 

Luckily their server arrived and interrupted, asking what they wanted to drink. Phil ordered a beer and after hesitating for a minute, Clint shrugged and said, "Same for me," then he gave Phil a self-deprecating grin.

"I actually forgot for a second that we weren't on a mission, so I could have a beer if I wanted one," he explained.

"This can't be the first time we've been to a restaurant together that wasn't during a mission," Phil said. "What about two months ago, when we were in Copenhagen?"

"The mission was over, but we went back to the safehouse after we ate, to wait for the exfil. You didn't have beer with your food."

Phil thought about it, and conceded that Clint was right. The server came back with their beers and took their food orders. They both opted for steak, Clint took his with fries and Phil ordered a baked potato with sour cream. He'd worked out that afternoon, so he figured he was allowed a bit of a treat. 

"Oh, and the hot wings are great, we'll take a big basket to share," Clint said with a smile, and Phil couldn't help but think how nice it was to see him relaxed and happy.

The conversation flowed more easily after that. They chatted about past missions, their favorite safehouses, and best and worst meals. As they munched companionably through their food, Clint shared a little about his time with the circus and Phil opened up about his years in the army. 

"I guess that's why SHIELD was such a good fit for you, huh? After being in the Army I mean - it was more of what you were used to," Clint was down to a few fries which he was dousing liberally in ketchup.

"Sort of. I loved the Army, especially the Rangers, but it was hard, too, before Don't Ask, Don't Tell," Phil said. "I felt like I was always watching myself, to make sure I was acting 'straight enough' whatever the hell that meant." Phil hadn't consciously decided to bring up the topic of his sexuality, but he did want Clint to know, and this seemed like the best opportunity.

"Wow. I guess I never thought about that. I mean, in the circus, it was just, whatever, you know? There were a couple of assholes, of course, but aside from them, nobody cared who as sleeping with who. I mean except for the usual jealousy stuff, but it was never about being gay or straight or bi, you know, it was just people being people."

Phil nodded. "Nick promised me when I joined SHIELD, that it would never be an issue, and he's kept that promise."

Clint nodded. "Yeah, I've never gotten any flack, either. But you, uh, don't, uh, advertise. That you're gay, I mean. Or bi?" Clint turned a little pink. "Sorry, I‑"

"It's okay," Phil said softly, suppressing an urge to reach across the table and take Clint's hand. "I identify as gay, and no, I don't advertise it. Mostly out of habit, but everyone close to me knows, including my family." 'And now you,' Phil thought.

"I'm, uh, bi, but I guess you knew that."

"You've mentioned dating both men and women, so I assumed, yes."

Clint grimaced. "Sorry, I guess I shouldn't talk about it around the office so much."

"You don't," Phil said. "That is, there's no reason not to talk about your personal life with your friends at work." 

"Do you?"

"Talk about my personal life?"

"No, uh, do you date?"

"Sometimes." Phil wondered if the intense stare that Clint was giving him meant something, but he just nodded, and went back to picking at the remains of the basket of wings.

Their server returned and asked if they wanted to see the dessert menu.

"Maybe just a coffee," Phil said. He'd already indulged enough for one meal.

"Uh, I have coffee, at my place. If you maybe wanted to come over? Besides, I have to give you your jacket back," Clint said, the tips of his ears going a little pink.

'Do you want to come up for coffee?' was pretty standard code for 'Are you interested in more than just dinner?' but Phil wasn't willing to risk making an assumption. He smiled and nodded. "Sure, that sounds nice."

Clint smiled happily at him and turned to the server, "We'll just get the check please."

On the walk back to Clint's place, they passed the laundromat Phil had used to wash Clint's bedding. "Is that your regular laundromat?" Phil asked, pointing. Clint's eyebrows went up at the unusual question.

"Yeah, why?"

"I washed your sheets there, when you were sick. There was a student, a young woman with purple hair studying Molecular Biology. Do you know her?"

"Cassie? Yeah, she's great. We chat all the time."

"She watched your stuff for me while I went back to my place for my bag. I gave her twenty bucks, but please thank her again for me, next time you see her."

"I will." Clint stopped walking and turned to face Phil. "Look, Phil, I uh, I know I've already said 'thank you' a bunch of times. I guess I keep saying it because I don't know how to ask… When you were taking care of me, was it just because we're friends? 'Cause I know this might be wishful thinking, or me dreaming something that didn't happen, but there were times while you were taking care of me when it kinda felt like maybe there was, uh, something else?"

Clint's question didn't make much sense, but Phil understood it perfectly. He wanted to reach out. To touch. Instead he spoke.

"I care about you a great deal, Clint." Then Phil did reach out. He laid his hand on Clint's arm and curled it around the warm solidity of his bicep. "And I came over to take care of you because I couldn't bear the thought of you being alone when you were sick. Yes, there is something else, if you want there to be."

"Yes." Clint took a half-step closer, and Phil stepped back, putting his back to the wall of an apartment building and then pulling Clint in. If someone had told him, a week ago, that he'd be doing this on a New York city sidewalk, he'd have said they were crazy. Maybe he was crazy, throwing caution to the wind, but he wanted this. And Clint… Clint was pressing up against him and saying "Yes," again, softly.

"I care about you, too. So much. I want this. I want you," Clint murmured, his lips an inch from Phil's ear. Then they were on his jaw by his ear, touching softly, gently, tentatively. Phil turned his head to meet them and raised his hand to the back of Clint's neck. The kisses were still soft. Gentle. Clint pulled back.

"Uh, maybe we should… not here? My place?"

"Yes." Phil slid his hand down from Clint's neck, along his arm, and laced their fingers together, which earned him a brilliant smile before Clint stepped back.

"Come on," he said, tugging Phil around the corner.

~~~~~~

Clint's apartment was much as he remembered it, just cleaner and tidier. As soon as they were through the door, Clint stopped and hesitated. Phil was done hesitating. Now that he knew they were on the same page, that is. He pulled Clint into his arms. "Now," he said with a small smile, "where were we?"

Clint leaned into him with a smile and a sigh, kissing him less gently this time. Phil reveled in the feeling of Clint's body pressed against his. Of getting to have Clint in his arms, holding him close. Kissing and touching and… Phil gasped into Clint's mouth as he felt Clint's callused fingers slide under the hem of his sweater and up his back. Clint pulled back from the kiss and regarded him from an inch away.

"Too soon? We can slow down if you want, I just thought-" 

Phil put his hands on Clint's ass and pulled him close. "I've waited for this long enough."

"Fuck, Phil," Clint murmured, rolling his hips in a way that left nothing to the imagination. 

"Yes," Phil said, as if Clint had meant it as a question. Clint kissed him hard, his hands roaming across Phil's back. In retaliation, Phil kneaded Clint's ass. 

Clint pulled his mouth away, and asked breathlessly, "We could move this to the sofa, or the bedroom?"

"Bedroom," Phil said. What the hell. They were both adults, they knew what they wanted. 

"Yeah. Okay, yeah. This way," Clint said. 

Phil grinned. "I know."

That made Clint laugh. He pulled back, depriving Phil of the warmth of his body, and sliding his arms out from under Phil's sweater, but made up for it by grabbing his hand. "Kinda makes things easier. You already knowing where everything is, and what I look like at my worst." 

"Clint," Phil used his free hand to gently grasp Clint's chin and hold him still for a brief kiss. "I already know everything I need to know about you. You're smart and courageous and honorable and a great friend. And you're funny and sexy and kind. And I've wanted to date you for years."

"Really? Years?" Clint's eyebrows disappeared into his hairline.

"Years. At first I didn't say anything because you were new at SHIELD, and my subordinate. And then I didn't say anything because I figured you wouldn't be interested in me that way."

"But I flirt with you all the time!"

"You flirt with everybody all the time," Phil said with an exasperated smile.

"God, I love it when you smile at me," Clint said, pulling Phil in for a kiss and then tumbling them both onto the bed. 

"I wanted to crawl into bed with you and hold you, when you were sick," Phil said, looking into Clint's eyes.

"I would have loved that, except that I would have been worried you were gonna catch my flu. I should probably warn you, I'm kinda clingy." Clint was running his hands back up under Phil's sweater.

"I don't mind clingy, at least not when we're alone." Phil said, smiling a contented little smile.

"Yeah, I realize it's gonna be kinda weird, so if you don't want anyone to know about, uh, us, I totally get that, and I don't have a problem with it." Clint looked earnestly at him, which nearly broke Phil's heart.

"It will probably be a little bit awkward at first, but I'm not the least bit ashamed for people to know that we're together. I want to be open about our relationship, if that's okay with you?" Phil said, cupping the side of Clint's face in one hand.

"If it's… yeah, yeah, it's okay with me." Clint was smiling a small, happy smile which was all the reassurance Phil needed.

"Good. Now, where were we?" he said, rolling Clint onto his back and kissing him thoroughly. 

Clint broke the kiss for just long enough to say, “Exactly where we should be.”


End file.
